One thousand tragedies
by Misila
Summary: The only thing you know for sure is that it's always him, you and that red threat. It's both a blessing and a curse.


_Free!_ does not belong to me. Neither does _High Speed!_

This fic was written for the _For the Future Festival_.

* * *

 ** _One thousand tragedies_**

.

You can't remember a lifetime in which you didn't meet him, so you suppose he was there in every one of them.

But you can't tell if there is more than what sometimes makes your head feel like it's going to explode and stabs your heart until it bleeds. There's nobody you can ask about it, after all. Maybe humans are truly alone in this big world. Maybe God just doesn't feel the need to answer your questions.

Maybe it's better this way.

If a God exists, he must have something more important to do than look after humans like you. Perhaps that's the reason you are tied to him, you think sometimes; maybe that's the purpose of the red thread that has always been there.

Red is the first colour you ever saw. Before meeting him for the first time, before being born for the first time; the string tied around your little finger is the first memory you have, the first hint of life in the emptiness from which your soul was created. It was the only path you knew, so you followed it.

And you found the ocean hidden within his eyes.

.

You met him for the first time the morning after burning down the village he called home. He was about thirteen; you would turn nineteen soon and were just an arrogant and easily manipulated soldier.

He tried to kill you, to avenge his dead family by taking your life. Your comrade sliced his throat before his dagger could even touch you.

You saw the thread that joined your little finger with the dead child's one. You didn't understand why it hurt so much, why breathing became so painful.

.

You can't remember how many times you have watched him die. You lost count of the amounts of lives that you finished in his arms, looking into his eyes and holding onto that thread, the only reality you were completely sure.

Maybe you did something wrong, something to deserve it.

.

You don't want to remember some lives. They make you hate him, hate yourself, and hate the world you had to live in.

In that one, you never knew what happened to him after you left, but you hope he found some peace. The desert took your life when you ran away from your master's home with him; you fell on the sand, thirsty but without anything to drink. He called you, reminded you that you had promised to not leave him alone, tried to carry you on his back.

You told him to keep walking, to keep living until he found the nearest city. He still had some strength within him and you didn't want to be at fault for his death, too.

He slapped you, disregarding the fact that you could barely feel anything at that point.

"I'm not like you," he hissed, and those were the last words you heard him say. You fell asleep and never woke up.

Even after all these lives, you still need to convince yourself that he didn't give up. Thinking otherwise is worse than a thousand deaths.

.

There were lives in which you never realized what the void within your chest was.

There were lives in which you let him go, lives in which you broke promises. Lives in which you hurt each other without meaning to.

.

You want to think his betrayals were attempts to protect you.

There was one life in which he was an important man, married to an important woman. You were a gardener, and he happened to like hiding from his duties between the bushes you took care of.

As time passed, the garden hid many other things, too.

First it was a kiss. Then two. Three. Too many to keep count.

Then, it hid hands that couldn't keep still whenever they had the chance to touch the other's skin.

And the last day, the birds helped silence those forbidden sounds. But you could hear his words nonetheless:

"You won't come here again."

You didn't react well. You didn't listen to him, didn't care about that cousin of his you would work for according to him. You felt like a broken toy, and you made sure he didn't see you again.

Many years later, you heard he'd died. You met his daughter at the funeral, and realized she'd been born some months after you left him.

.

There must be something more than what you can remember. There must be a reason behind so many lost lives, behind so much misery.

But you can only relive all those memories when your soul is waiting for him in that white nothingness and ask him when he pulls the thread until he finds you. But he never answers, and you're afraid you're the only one who knows, that maybe it's all in your mind and you have never actually touched him.

But then, how can all those feelings be unreal? How could all those lives have never happened?

If he's real, your memories must be, too.

.

You have learnt to fear his tears. Because they mean everything is really wrong.

Maybe that's why your eyes were dry the day you would be executed. As he approached your cell, you were glad, _so glad_ you had managed to make the authorities believe he'd just been your hostage, that you didn't notice the rage shining in his eyes. He wouldn't die with you, and he would run away to his dear ocean again, and it was enough.

"You shouldn't be here," you whispered. "You were hostage, remember? If they see you acting friendly-"

"Why?" he cut you off. "Why did you make it seem like I didn't do anything?"

You looked away.

"You just wanted to see the ocean, didn't you? That's not a crime."

He gripped the iron bars separating you.

"You had no right," he snarled between his teeth, lowering his gaze. "Now they'll… you…"

Your stomach sunk when you saw a single teardrop falling down his face.

"No, Haru, don't cry," you whispered, panic filling your heart. "Please. I didn't do this for you to cry."

"Then what did you do this for?"

"For at least one of us to keep sailing." You covered his hands with yours, keeping silent while he tried to suppress his sniffles.

"I wish I hated you," he mumbled, and for a second you could swear there was a red string tangled around your hand and his.

.

Your souls must be _really_ damned. What did your existence do wrong?

.

Maybe it's good that you can't remember while you live. Because if you could, maybe you wouldn't fight for him the way you do. You would have given him up a lot of lifetimes ago. Or perhaps you wouldn't, because one second by his side is worth ten lives of tears.

Probably a part of you always remembers, so deep inside you that you aren't aware of it. Because sometimes, in the mist between sleep and consciousness, you can feel a pull on your little finger, and when he falls asleep with you, you catch a glimpse of red.

.

* * *

.

Rin woke to an arm draped over his chest and a deep breathing caressing his shoulder. Startled, he pushed the body laying next to him and looked around, looking desperately for a source of light, nearly jumping out of his skin when a hand grabbed his wrist and a dark silhouette rose from the sheets.

"Let go!"

"Are you- Rin-" Haruka freed his arm when he realized Rin was genuinely upset. "Was it a nightmare?"

Rin shook his head, feeling a bit calmer when he recognized Haruka's bedroom in his grandmother's house. He looked almost ashamed of his outburst when he covered his face with his hands, still trembling uncontrollably.

"It was weird," he mumbled, laying down between the pillows again and trying to control his breathing.

Haruka laid down next to him, carefully leaving some centimetres between their bodies.

"What was it about?"

But Rin only hugged him, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

"It doesn't matter. You're here."

.

* * *

.

When dawn came you had forgotten everything about your dream, about other lifetimes.

It doesn't matter. Maybe that would be the life when you finally could be happy with him.


End file.
